My head is still reeling from Lydia Hearst‘s comments in Page Six magazine, bristling about being compared to the immortal Paris Hilton. “Remember, I am a supermodel,” Lydia wrote, dripping hauteur all over herself, “and have the award to prove it, and she is a celebrity. There’s no comparison.”
It took me several days to process the multitude of thoughts shooting out of my lil’ noggin as a result of this statement, but after popping some seizure pills, I finally have the wherewithal to address them:
Firstly, “I am a supermodel”? Does someone actually say that who’s not a character on Mad TV? Do people actually listen to themselves before they put their utterances to paper? Does a highway ‘ho brag, “I am a pleasure engineer” in between toothless blow jobs? And does Charlize Theron walk around saying, “Move out of my way, people, I am a superstar”? Don’t answer that.
Secondly, there’s an award that actually proves you’re a supermodel? What is it–a box of Dexatrim? A tube of cream for back acne? A golden bowl of blow? And if you’re the most fabulous model on earth but you don’t happen to have been bestowed this particular award, does that mean you’re an useless piece of shit?
And Paris is just a “celebrity,” Lydia? Yeah, a celebrity who does music, TV, movies, merchandising, and—yes, its true—modeling! I’m not sure if she has that all-important award or not, but if so, then she even does SUPERmodeling. Oy, I’m in such a rage over this tempest in a crackpot that I might just bring a hammer to Fashion Week and aim for the runway. You suck, Lydia Hearst! You made me have to defend Paris Hilton!
PS: Of course if you were being facetious, then I take it all back. Let’s have lunch.